


Present(s)

by SaltAndBurn (AlyssiaInWonderland)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Presents, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugs, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Stanford Era, Student Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:11:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssiaInWonderland/pseuds/SaltAndBurn
Summary: Sam's just finished his first semester at Stanford and is working hard on Christmas Eve to pay for his bed and board while studying. He's alone and misses Dean, decent sleep, and pretty much everything except John.He stubs his toe on a mysterious package left at his doorstep.Turns out it's from Dean. What's in it, and what does it mean for him?





	Present(s)

**Author's Note:**

> Someone AMAZING made a comic of this fic here:  
> [ on my tumblr ](https://love-nakamura.tumblr.com/post/181926065719/based-on-a-fic-by-alyssiainwonderland-on-ao3)
> 
> ITS FANTASTIC PLEASE GIVE THIS TALENTED PERSON SOME LOVE <3

It’s already dark when Sam reaches his door, which is why he doesn’t spot the package until he’s hit his toe and shin on it.

“Fu-dge!” He swears in a harsh, pained whisper, because it’s nearly midnight on Christmas Eve and there are probably several kids in earshot listening out for Santa. If the children in the area started claiming Father Christmas was real because they heard him swearing in the middle of the night, they’d blame the students and he might be kicked out of his cheap accommodation, which would be all kinds of disastrous.

He hops on one foot as he rubs his shin, bending down to pick his keys up off the top of the box. He doesn’t recall ordering anything; it’s not like he has anyone to give stuff to this year. Nobody else is in, so either they’ve got something delivered to the wrong address, or it’s for him. Either way, he probably should store it to save it from potential weather or theft.

He fumbles with the keys, wincing as he scrapes off some flaky paint on the door before he manages to twist the lock right. He briefly considers leaving the parcel outside, because he’s bone-tired from his shift - customers are, in his firm opinion, the absolute worst around the festive period. Instead, he resignedly drags the giant box into the corridor.

He elects to take the elevator for once, even though he has to press the button awkwardly with his knee to hold the cardboard steady. Fortunately, once he’s hit the right floor, he’s perfected the art of scanning his ID card to his room through the pocket of his jeans, so some dubious posing later he’s in his room with the box deposited on his desk.

He tucks his backpack away, lines his shoes up neatly by the door, hangs his coat, and then his curiosity becomes too strong. Despite his exhaustion, he shuffles over to the desk and peers at the address now it’s in the light of his reading lamp.

His name and address is on it, on a professionally printed piece of paper taped onto it. If that didn’t tap his suspicions, the sheer number of different postage markers on it makes him decidedly concerned. He pulls out his penknife and carefully cuts the paper off the package, holding it up to the light and spotting the watermark used by the printer they used to use for business cards.

“Fuck!” He’s inside, and he’s just got a giant box that’s likely from the family he ran away from no more than four months ago. He thinks he’s entitled to some genuine swearing. “Shit, crap, goddamn freaking hell!” He’s panicking, he observes distantly. He’s dropped the paper, and it slid inoffensively onto the desk, wedging itself slightly under his desk lamp. His penknife is still in his hand, and he abruptly realises he’s flipped it from a casual grip to something more suitable for an actual fight.

The reminder that such a response is so thoroughly ingrained in him does nothing to help his panic. He looks down, takes a breath, and that’s when he notices the message written in thick, messy marker underneath the paper.

_SAMMY – DON’T FREAK OUT. READ THE LETTER IN HERE FIRST. – DEAN._

He puts down the penknife and collapses onto his desk chair. His hands are shaking, and he has to take a moment to make the world stop feeling quite so distant as it does. He hasn’t seen Dean’s handwriting in so long. The sight of it, the wrenching twist it wreaks on his heart when he thinks of how Dean wrote that because he must have known Sam would check the paper and freak, has his logical brain stuttering to a halt. Something about the way Dean clearly predicted his exact response is terrifying and heart-warming. He doesn’t have enough hate left in him to resist that level of understanding. Not when almost all of it is hard-won and focussed on John.

He thinks about standing up, calling Dean, but decides to just pick up the penknife and open the box instead.

True to the writing on the outside, the first thing he sees is a letter. The rest of the contents are covered up by some bright red tissue paper, which is so out of character that Sam actually barks out a small laugh.

The letter is on standard printer paper, and slightly creased. As he unfolds it, he’s pretty sure he can see smudges from where Dean’s hand wiped over the biro ink before it dried, and there’s definitely some engine oil on it somewhere amongst the mess because he can smell it. It’s a sense-memory that slams him instantly into a reality where he’s sat by the roadside watching Dean fixing up the Impala while he holds their beers.

 

* * *

 

_Hey Sammy._

_You’ve probably guessed, but it’s me. Dean._

_I know you’re mad at me, and you don’t gotta be anything else, I promise._

_And before you freak, like I know you probably are right now – no, I didn’t tell Dad where you are. Didn’t tell anyone, not even Bobby. I’m a great brother like that._

_Besides, it’s not like you were hard to find. This is basically the only place they let people with a full ride to your fancy smart college stay._

_The receptionist who gives out addresses to students is really hot, by the way._

_Anyway, this is getting off track and I know jack about letter writing. You were always the one who could do well at this crap. Obviously._

_The point of this is, well. You don’t gotta reciprocate. I get it if you’re still mad at me. Hell, I was mad at you for a while, even though I pretty much knew you were going. Before you say it, shut up, man. I can totally be mad at you even if I drove you to the damn bus stop, and you did awful at hiding how pissed off you were when you left. I don’t blame you. Dad was outta line, with what he said. All of it._

_‘Sides, we all knew you’d make something of yourself more than either of us could, me and Dad. Buck up, college boy. Dad’s pissed, but I can tell he’s proud too. So am I._

_Crap, I’m off topic again. Told you I suck at this chick flick shit, Sammy._

_I got you some stuff. You’re a starving student, and it’s Christmas. Keep it, sell it, whatever. I’ve always made sure you get something and I ain’t gonna let something as small as your bitch-ass heading to a different state stop me._

_Didn’t want you to spend a family holiday with nothing, I guess._

_If you want to talk, if you’re not mad at me, call me. You know the number, the one Dad doesn’t know about._

_I don’t like the thought of you out there alone, Sammy. Not gonna lie about that._

_But I’m glad you’re doing what you want. Glad you got to make your choice for you and not for anything else._

_So I got you some stuff. Go be a pretentious dork. Cut your hair._

_See you maybe, bitch._

_Dean._

* * *

 

Sam’s brushing splashes off the paper before he figures out he’s crying.

The letter is so very Dean. Informal, smarter than anyone might guess at from the surface. Caring, a little blunt, and a lot annoying, because that’s what older brothers are supposed to be, according to his rules. That and apparently arbiters of the wellbeing and happiness of their younger siblings. Which Sam’s always known, but seeing it consciously written out makes it feel more concrete. It makes the pain in his chest sharper, fond at the edges.

He sets the letter aside carefully, and tentatively removes the tissue paper.

 A dark green hoodie lies over the top of the box. It’s plain, but sturdy-looking, and under it is a matching t-shirt. When he takes a look at the back he finds the Stanford Law logo. He’s not sure if it’s legit merch or not, but that stuff is such a rip-off he’s not had the chance to own anything branded, and a knockoff t-shirt and warm hoodie is pretty awesome in his opinion. Under those, he finds a travel mug with a cute puppy on it, a small pack of his favourite type of ballpoint pen, some expensive-looking coffee blend and a tiny cafetierre. Finally, there’s two boxes, one smaller than the other. He opens the largest first, which holds a sharp silver dagger small enough to pass as a letter opener, and then the smaller one, which holds a gift-card for a clothing store nearby for $50, and a roll of notes which add up to $200.

It’s all thoughtful, the characteristic teasing note usually present utterly absent from this collection of items. The only nod to their usual fare is the practical nature of the clothes and money, and even the silver dagger seems designed to protect him while blending into his new life.

He wonders how long it must have taken Dean to prepare this. He’d probably started on the pool games as soon as Sam left, if not before. That or he’d seriously upped his fraud game. Either way, it’s blatant that Dean’s been thinking of him just as much as Sam’s been missing him.

He feels like such an outsider, still. It’s his first year, and he’s heard that first years are always rough, but he has a hazy notion that it shouldn’t be quite this bad. Something about him fundamentally doesn’t seem to fit in with the crowd. Maybe it’s his height, his purposeful muscle and honed paranoia, or maybe he’s just plain awkward. Whatever it is, he’s not found his niche yet. He’d expected it to be hard. He just hadn’t accounted for how much he’d miss the parts of their life that didn’t suck.

He wipes the remaining tears off his face with the back of his hand, and dials Dean’s number.

“Heya, what’s up?” Dean’s voice is clear despite the states between them, and suddenly Sam’s voice seizes up. He’s trying to make words come out and nothing works. “Hello?”

Sam listens stupidly to Dean’s confused voice until –

“Sa- Sammy? Sammy, is this you?” God, Dean sounds so freaking broken by the idea it might be Sam on the line, and that’s what gets through to him well enough to kick start his brain again.

“Yeah.” He whispers, isn’t sure how to keep going, stuck on hearing his brother’s voice again after so long. “Dean, yeah. It’s me.”

There’s a pause that’s long enough to be uncomfortable, where he’s sure Dean’s waiting for him to set up the boundaries for their interaction, and he’s still struggling for some kind of solid ground.

“I found the box.” He says, instantly regretting it, because he sounds distant and cold, almost angry, and he doesn’t mean to be.

“Yeah?” Dean clears his throat on the other end of the line. His voice is deeper and shakier than Sam remembers it being. “Good. That’s good.”

“You were right.” Sam blurts out, and to his horror, he feels himself start crying again. “I did freak. And you figured I would and – and Dean, I’m not mad, I swear I’m not, it was just so much going on all at once, and man, I needed to get out, you know that, and – God, Dean-“ He cuts himself off with a sob he stifles against his hand.

“You’re not mad at me?” Dean asks, and Sam hates how vulnerable that question makes him sound. Dean’s not meant to be like that. He’s meant to be the cocky, infallible older brother Sam left behind – left alone with their Dad, which felt bad even before Dean admitted to worrying about Sam being alone in that letter.

“I miss you.” It’s not exactly what he means to say, but it’s true for all that it was involuntary. Perhaps truer for it; they’ve never been good at being honest with each other when it comes to emotions.

“Not for long.” Sam frowns as Dean continues, confused. “You better stay not-mad, Samsquatch.”  
  
“Dean, what-“ He’s cut off by the dial tone, and just as he’s about to try and call back, he hears a knock on his door.

He gets up to open it, phone still in his hand, tear-tracks on his face, feeling like none of this is even real, because it’s all far too much like some kind of crazy, sleep-deprivation and loneliness induced hallucination.

The door swings open, and there’s Dean, wearing his customary leather jacket and a nervous grin.

“Don’t be mad?” Dean takes a small step forward, then stops, hanging awkwardly in the doorframe like he’s unsure of his welcome.

Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder and yanks him into his room, letting the door slam shut as he buries himself in Dean with a choked-off sob.

Dean’s jacket is cold and his skin is warm, and he smells of car and whiskey and home.

“Easy there, Sammy. Easy.” His words rumble in his chest, and Sam can feel the vibrations as the hug is returned, tightly.

“Dean.” His voice is muffled because he’s speaking the word into the space where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder, and leather absorbs sound easily, but Dean squeezes him tighter and that’s all that matters.

There are so many words, queueing up and fighting to be spoken, that he feels like he has to say all of them at once, or none at all. Questions and affirmations and disbelief are clawing for first place in his voice, but only one thing wins as he relinquishes his grip on Dean.

“Where’s Dad?” That question alone encompasses so much more than the two words. As always, Dean answers the intent as well as the wording.

“On a hunt in Oregon. Asked me to spend time with Bobby, so I told Bobby I’d spend Christmas hunting. Neither of them are exactly lining up to hang out.” Dean takes a deep breath, and Sam can visibly see what it costs him to say the rest. “He’s not gonna know I’ve been here. He’s not gonna know anything about you, period. Not unless you give your say-so, Sammy. Promise.” 

“Dean, I-“ Sam hesitates. “Thank you. For everything.”

“What can I say, man? It’s all just part of the awesome big brother package. Ain’t gonna get a better Christmas present than me, bitch!” Dean ruffles his hair, and claims the desk chair. Now Sam’s older, though, he thinks he can see through the façade. He sees how Dean’s retreated into humour so they don’t have to talk about all the things they never say.

There just isn’t a way for Sam to express all the things he wants to, so he does the next best thing.

“You’re such a jerk, Dean.” He adds some extra whining into his tone for effect as he sprawls, purposely dramatically, onto the tiny bed. “I can’t believe you checked out the receptionist who gave you my freaking address.”

“What?!” Dean manages to sound genuinely bemused by Sam’s attitude. “It’s not my fault! I have eyes, dude!”

“You hit on literally everyone you see, Dean. You don’t need eyes, you need glasses.” Sam smirks, already falling back into their usual dynamic.

“You’re just obscenely picky. Speaking of – tell me everything. Starting with if you’ve got anyone hot you’re after, and skimping on the actual studying.” Dean sits forward in the chair, every inch the teasing, interested and warm brother he’s been missing like a second limb.

Sam basks in the moment. He’s exhausted, he’s scraping by on scholarships and money that’s almost definitely stolen, his part time job might as well be based in hell. But he’s not alone.

“Well,” He begins. He’s got a lot to catch Dean up on.

Better get started.

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! I hope this is enjoyable! I'm not great at summaries so sorry about that.
> 
> As ever, comments and kudos feed my dark soul! <3


End file.
